


Sticks and Stones and Weed and Bombs

by kingtumbleweed



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Drugged Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:23:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtumbleweed/pseuds/kingtumbleweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinky PWP.  Gamzee and Kurloz smoke some 'nip and have some dirty, kinky sex.  All tags are highly relevant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticks and Stones and Weed and Bombs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [incorrigibleIxoreus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrigibleIxoreus/gifts).



> Fair warning, this one might be rough around the edges because I wrote straight into the textbox and no beta. It was a (reasonably) quick write intended to fulfill my craving for sex with drugs and incorrigibleIxoreus's craving for Gamloz.

Kurloz puffs moonlight-pale smoke through his nose, tilting his head back when you take the blunt from between his lips. He leans back against the cushions, shifting his bound wrists behind him. You smile, wan, taking the last toke like a sweet-spicy sacrament, holding it in your lungs a moment to breathe it out against his mouth. He drags it in through a thin part in his lips, eyelids hooded low with the high. You lean over him further, setting one knee between his slender thighs and pressing your lips against his just to take in the texture of his mouth and the taut cords in his lips, and the smell of his ash paint and smoke on his breath. His lips are soft beneath the cords, and don't do nothing to prevent him kissing you back. You lick at his upper lip once, and when Kurloz grins against your mouth, you draw back, reaching behind you for the short ropes you laid out on your table.

You bind each of his knees bent at a tight angle, calf to thigh. Herb ain't your normal choice--it makes you feel dry and expansive, your thoughts multilayered and sensations sharper, much different from sopor. Sopor is your own sugary miracle syrup, all rich color and patterns and sleepy, half-dissociated focus. Kurloz waits, all chill with his eyes closed, while you work. You bite his chin.

"Wake up, motherfucker."

He blinks at you, all calm and half-smiles, and sort of shrugs with his knees, letting them fall open earlier. His skin is pale, plain gray from waist to knees, where he doesn't bother painting under his pants. You trail your nails down the inside of one of his thighs and he shivers, arching his back a little towards you. Motherfucker of a brother's all calm on the outside, and nobody knows what he's thinking if he doesn't choose to share. 

He chooses to share by looking over your shoulder at the table, where you laid your knife beside your extra rope. You follow his gaze with a grin, and palm it off the table. "Brother, you all wanting for blood?" The knife edge is filet-sharp against your thumb.

Kurloz rolls his head back and forth in thought, then nods with a beatific smile. 

You bare your teeth, grinning again, and press the knife edge gently against his lips. "Kiss it."

He does, pursing his lips against the blade while you draw it against them, just hard enough to split the skin of his lower lip, and you trace the point along down his chin, and use the flat to press his chin up so that you can lick the bead of blood away. You hitch your skirts up, wedging your knee up against his bare nook and fist your hand in the hair behind his head, pulling back to expose his neck as you continue the line you started, tracing the tip of the knife down the column of his neck. He sighs, relaxing into your grasp. You can see the arteries in his neck pulsing with his heartbeat, and touch the line of the knife to that spot on the side, wetting your lips. Your breathing is slow, concentrated, controlled. There is no getting high on power, playing with your brother, even if temptation sits sticky in your mind like a thin layer of oil.

The flat of the blade leaves a smeared streak in his paint as you drag it down his chest, pressing the blade into his pectorals firmly enough for the cut to sting, but not enough to draw blood. His nook is damp, the tip of his bulge peeking out to press up beneath your skirt against your knee, and you can feel the tension rising and falling in his body as you play. You nudge your knee between his legs, just a little bump to get his attention, and let go of his hair to palm your crotch in front of him, through your skirts. Kurloz watches, half-lidded, shifting a little in his bonds, the motion rubbing him against your knee, and his bulge creeps further out, a cool wet curl against your skin, counterpoint to rough skirt fabric against your nook. Everything seems so focused at once, it's easy to lose yourself in the oversharp sensations even though touching yourself is forgettably familiar. You curl your fingers up between your legs, making a show of it, licking your lips. He arches his back again and tucks his chin against his chest, eyes flicking from your hand to your face, and you pointedly lick your fangs when he looks up.

"You want to see?"

A nod.

"Well," you set the knife down on his leg, shimmying your skirts down to your thighs. Kurloz watches, intent, as you rub your fingertips up and down your slit, around the entrance of your bulge sheath, teasing, getting yourself wet. You roll the tip of your bulge between your fingers, working it out, and Kurloz shifts his weight slowly as he watches, grinding himself against you. His bulge is fully aroused, leaving sticky smears on your skirt and skin. 

Satisfied, you push your skirts down and off entirely as you sit down in front of him, pushing his knees wide with your own, picking your knife up again. Kurloz goes very still when you place the blade against his soft inner thigh--"Brother, ain't nearly enough blood on you,"--and when you press down, drawing a line of dark violet blood, his breath hisses in between his teeth. You line up the knife again and this time his head flops back, releasing the same breath hard. Brother of yours won't make noise, but that doesn't stop you trying to make him. You run your thumb down the ridge along the bottom of his bulge, and let it wrap around your wrist and thumb as you slide two fingers along the length of his nook. Kurloz's breath comes harder when you brush the knife over the lips of his nook, sliding the tip just between them, threatening the thin skin, and his bulge coils in your hand, agitated. You bare your teeth at him and, pinning him still with your weight, very slowly, carefully, insert about an inch of blade.

He is holding his breath, every muscle strung wire-taut, and you tell him,

"Get off, motherfucker." You tug his bulge, hard, and he comes just like that, breath stuttering through his clenched teeth, splattering slurry over your hands and thighs, shivering all over with the effort not to clench and lacerate his insides on the blade.

You toss the knife aside before his slurry even starts to cool--your bulge is writhing like a dying slitherbeast, aroused and aching--the feeling heavy through the fuzzy feeling of coming down from your high, and you say, "I'm gonna fuck you," only half question. Kurloz tilts his jaw up in assent anyway, and you unceremoniously drag him to you until his back is against the floor, arms pinned awkwardly beneath him, push his knees up against his chest, and have him fast and hard, his nook sloppy-wet with his slurry and fantastically slick. He can't be comfortable, arms and hands crushed under him, your hipbones hitting up against the bloody cuts on his thigh with every thrust, but he squirms and wheezes under you, probably painfully oversensitized from coming, and he seizes up a second time just before you come, dragged over by his nook spasming hard around your bulge, wringing along its length, and you come carelessly inside him, claws digging into his skin and growling.

When the two of you have stopped shuddering, you roll him on his side and untie him. He lays where you left him, flexing stiffness out of his limbs with slow, languid movements, while you retrieve your first aid kit. Kurloz winces as you dab disinfectant over his chest and thigh and dress the cuts on his leg. He sits up afterwards, clacking his horns against yours and kissing you chastely in thanks, and you butt your forehead gently against his with an,

"Anytime, bro."


End file.
